By Julia Rajagopalan    

The corner of the hedge, nearest our driveway, is brown and dying. I know why. Twice a day, my neighbor takes her golden retriever for a walk, and every time he passes, he pees on it. I watch him do it from my office window on the second floor of my Tudor.

I love working from home. It cuts down on the commute and the office drama, but I do not like my neighbors.

I go online and purchase a little green sign that says, ‘Don’t Pee Here.’ There is a cartoon dog with a big red cross through it, like the no-smoking signs you used to see before the entire world banned cigarettes.

The next day, her dog pees directly on the sign.

I should talk to her, ask her nicely to stop, but the last time I spoke to her about the yard, she lectured me about native plants. She’ll claim that the hedge is dying because it isn’t native, and I need to rip the whole thing out and put in some weeds to save the butterflies or something.

I am not a petty person, but I’ve started taking my own walks. Every day I leave through the garage, and every day I plunge my hand into the container of rock salt, kept for the icy winter sidewalk. A paper cut on my thumb stings as it grinds against the salt.

Parked in her driveway is a forest green hatchback. On the back, clings a paw print bumper sticker. I wonder if I can find a bumper sticker for boxwoods. When I walk past her yard, I toss salt across the grass. I keep my hand at my side as I do, out of view of her doorbell camera. It reminds me of Bible study when they talked about salting the earth to keep anything from growing. I feel vindicated when I think of this. Instead of an eye for an eye, it’s a lawn for a lawn, and that is vindication and not vindictive. It’s funny how similar those two words are.

In less than a week, her lawn starts to brown. In two weeks, there are patches the size of my head. I start taking two walks a day and I wave to her as she watches me through her front window. I vary the times of my walk, but she’s always there watching. I don’t see them walk in front of my house anymore, but then again, I don’t sit in front of the window all day.

After a few months, she replaces the grass with fresh sod, though I don’t think the grass is native to this region. Still, it might be safe to replace my boxwood. I’ll do it as long as it’s not going to become a puppy urinal. I go to the nursery and locate the correct plant. Back at home, I hack at the dead shrub, cutting the roots with clippers when I can’t dig it out.

The new plant isn’t the right shape, but given the chance, it will be. As I dig through spreadsheets the next afternoon, I watch my neighbor walk past with her dog. He stops to sniff the new addition, and I’m sure she’ll pull him past, but she watches patiently while he decides. When he baptizes my new plant, I set down my pen and go to get the salt.

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Julia Rajagopalan is a writer of speculative and literary fiction who lives just outside of Detroit, Michigan, with her husband and their very grumpy dog. For a list of her publications, check out her website: http://JuliaRajagopalan.com.